It was late at night
I was tired, dirty, hungry,
dissolving into salesman's squalor
after an unprofitable day.
My feet were as asleep as my mind
when the taxi turned the corner
onto a remembered midtown street
that suddenly looked slums at me.
Hostile black and latino families,
carelessly sprawled on the steps,
in undershirts, shorts, new sneakers,
beer cans dripping with resentment,
offered no welcome to a weary traveler.

I stumbled to the registration desk
sample cases sagging to the ground,
besieged by unofficial bellhops
eager to relieve me of my burden.
The desk was guarded
by a plexiglass clerk
who refused to notice me.
I knocked until he responded,
requested a room with private bath,
was charged 50% more then last year,
and much too weary for dispute,
took the urine scented elevator
up past yells and curses
to my dim, dank floor.

The room was shabby, smelly, sullen,
stained by the liquid history of occupants.
I was too exhausted to depart,
so I barricaded my door,
curled up in my clothes
on the over-experienced bed,

only stirring with apprehension
at the screams of sex and violence.
Morning did not come too soon.

I rinsed my face, combed my hair,
picked up my bags, went to the door,
rode the aromatic elevator
to the lobby of release.
I only paused to ask the clerk
who looked as harsh as famine,
what changed things since last year.
As I went out the door of reprieve
he yelled that it had recently become
a hotel for the homeless